


Lean Into my Side

by sugarboat



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Infidelity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Henryk and Father Gascoigne share some moments during a night of the hunt.





	

It wasn’t unusual for the streets to be emptied and barren by this point in the hunt, but it had never ceased to be an eerie, almost unsettling sight. Winding and mazelike, they had been abandoned hours ago by the citizens Henryk and his fellow hunters were sworn to protect, and now were left shrouded in fog and darkness as the moon dipped down from its apex and the lanterns hanging sporadically from canting household walls burned themselves out to low simmering smolders that spewed out thin plumes of thick dark smoke. In more populated city centers the sweet, cloying miasma of incense still lingered in the air, but all Henryk could smell here was the coppery and fetid blood that slicked his coats. 

_Blood that flooded his senses, curling up into his mind like slim, rooting vines, that hooked into the space behind his eyes and throbbed. Henryk had found himself panting during fights, his heartbeat pounding and burning through his veins, saliva pooling in his mouth every time his saw carved through the bristled, matted fur and muscle of a beast’s hide._

The endless howling of the beasts had been quieted. Henryk’s own clattering steps were the only disturbance, echoing hollow off the cobblestone streets and crowded brick-faced buildings. He paused at a stirring breeze, straining his ears to hear beyond the muted rustling of his heavy clothing, the low creak of his leather clad fingers tightening around the wrapped handle of his weapon; searching for a telling thread to lead his hunt: the scrape of jagged claws across the ground or the snuffling breath of a creature scavenging. His gaze lingered on the dark and wilted, nerveless forms of slain beasts that lied congealing in their own messes, but nothing in the alley roused to awareness. 

He remained still for a handful of elongated moments, until he could hear his pulse beating in his ears. Until stiffness leeched into his bones, groaning in abused joints, and the injuries scattered across his body ached in dull spikes; low embers that flared again to life in the absence of distraction. Henryk shook out his limbs and continued on. Stronger than a hunch, a feeling like lead - _or blood_ \- settling deep in the pit of his stomach, the fine hairs on the ridge of his neck prickling and standing – a beast was about, was here, somewhere. 

But no sign of it. No loping form shuffling in the dark, no darting shadows fleeing from the corners of his eye. No ragged, wet, sucking breaths, no shearing flesh or crackling, snapping bones. Henryk had caught its side with a throwing knife, had seen the blade stick in until there was naught but its handle jutting forth from between the beast’s grotesquely expanded and extruding ribs. The hunter had steeled himself for a fight, then – the wound was nothing that could quell a beast – but instead of howling, ear-splitting shrieks, instead of lunging close with wide, swiping claws, instead of glowing red eyes fixating on his own and filled with nothing outside of savagery, and the promise of pain and death to come; instead the beast had fled. 

And undeterred, hunter that he was, Henryk had pursued. 

A low growl reverberated in the street, so loud and deep and rumbling that Henryk could feel his own chest rattling along with it. He whipped around, expecting to find the lumbering form of the beast upon him, raised on its hind legs as though it remembered being bipedal, clumsy, mutilated hands reaching out to grab him. There was nothing, his saw dragging through empty air, and the sound worsened and then abruptly stopped. Belatedly, Henryk had realized that beneath the blood speckled cloth and leather of his mask, his upper lip was curled in a snarl that bared his teeth, and the frustrated, animalistic noise had come from _him_.

Henryk felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. The back of his mind whispered sacrilege, and he thought, unbidden, of the ashes of Old Yharnam far below, of rumors of the man who dwelled among the acrid smoke and charred remains. Of paws with long, groping fingers, that didn’t resemble paws at all. On his thighs, the messy constellations of myriad wounds left behind by the vials turned to pin points of heat, as though each site had just been pricked by the tip of a needle. 

His left hand, unoccupied with his gun, had inched towards the blood vials in question, and he clenched both his fists in response. Henryk refocused himself, ignored his own thoughts that churned as an uneasy maelstrom. With his free hand he hooked two fingers over the edge of his mask, jerking it down from his face to hang crumpled around his neck. The night air was sharp and biting against his skin and he breathed in deep, the cold prickling all the way down the branches of his lungs and carrying, rather than the heady, metallic tang of the blood seeped into his clothing, the musk of dampened fur and the rot of the city.

There was a great, mournful howl and this time, Henryk was certain it hadn’t come from himself. The low wailing continued on as he broke into a run, fingers twitching around the handle of his saw in anticipation. He rounded a corner, the yowl almost deafening, and the stench of raw, fresh blood nearly overpowered him. Gascoigne had already found his prey, and as Henryk watched the hunter swung his axe in a wide arc, slicing cleanly across the beast’s front. Blood sprayed, thick and pitch black in the night, but Henryk knew the sight by heart, knew how the fluid would gleam red and golden under the flicker of torchlight. 

The beast was large, a true display of the grotesque monstrosities it called its kin. Dark fur and searing eyes, skin stretched taut over bones that protruded unnaturally, so that the tips of its vertebrae stood out along its back like spines, and deep hollow valleys lay between the bones of its ribcage that heaved in and out as it shrieked and caterwauled. It reared back, preparing to snap its gory maw forward and Henryk heaved a throwing knife at it, grinning when the beast flinched from the strength of the blow and turned its attention towards him.

It leaned its weight backwards, and Henryk’s own hip joints twinged to see its display, but he threw another dagger at the creature even as it leapt towards him, cutting a thick, curving gash down the midline of its snout and scalp. The distraction was all the chance Gascoigne needed to extend his axe, and he brought the newly elongated weapon crashing down with visceral force, across the beast’s stretched out, striving neck, and Henryk could hear the wet, cracking sound of its blade cutting through meat and then bone and then meat again, and in an instant the beast’s body was slumping forward, its head dangling from a thin stretch of loose skin. 

Arterial blood, bright and fresh, spewed forth in two sputtering columns from its severed neck, splattering across Henryk’s face and then in patters like rain across his leathers, a puddle forming beneath his boots as the beast sank to the ground. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, the blood on his tongue rich, and foul, and sending a hot bolt down his spine that pooled like mead in his gut. His gaze stayed locked on the still twitching form of the beast until Henryk heard the quick, heavy thudding of Gascoigne striding closer. He looked up, mouth opened to congratulate his fellow, when there was a sharp clanging – Gascoigne’s axe hitting the wet stone street – and the other hunter wrapped fists around the lapels of his coat and hauled him up, before slamming his back against the wall behind them with such strength that the air was knocked out of his chest. 

Henryk allowed his own weapon to fall and his legs kicked, unable to reach the ground from the distance Gascoigne had lifted him up. His hands gripped tightly onto Gascoigne’s, and his arms tensed and quivered with effort as he tried to hold up some of his own weight. His partner hauled him forward again, until he could feel the frantic puff of Gascoigne’s breath across his damp face, and then propelled him back into the cold, unyielding bricks. 

“G- Gasc-” he began, but his breath was being strangled out of him as Gascoigne twisted his hands, the heavy fabric constricting around Henryk’s ribcage. It felt like he was in the grip of a giant, bent on slowly crushing his chest between strong fingers, and strangely, it sent a deep shudder like a wave, upending soot and sediment, down his body. 

“You think I can’t take care of one _beast_ ,” Gascoigne snarled, leaning closer. An actual lancet of fear speared through him, somewhere low in his stomach, but it was quelled rather quickly as the taller hunter slid a leg between his own, canting upwards so his thigh pressed against him and Henryk was forced to rest some of his weight on it.

“N-No, of course, you can,” Henryk said between gasps, as Gascoigne applied steady, increasing pressure to his chest. His legs spread slightly around the thigh trapped between them, and his hips twitched downwards to grind himself on the firm surface. 

By this point in the hunt – this wasn’t an unusual development either. Something in the blood of beasts awoke a deep stirring within the hearts of men, and hunters weren’t immune to its call. There was a little thrill of anticipation somewhere along his spine, and it radiated down the threads of his nerves to tingle in his extremities. 

“I should show you your place, Henryk,” Gascoigne said. He was so close now, the scant space that separated them felt sharp and alive, and then Gascoigne ground his hips against his own, and Henryk rolled his head back and let out a low moan.

The lithe hunter reached out a hand and tangled his fingers in the long, sweat drenched locks of Gascoigne’s hair and dragged the man forward, until their lips met in a clash. No softness, or tenderness, and there was a hard, jarring reverb each time their teeth clacked together. It didn’t take long to find a familiar rhythm, Henryk looping his free arm around Gascoigne’s neck and dragging him closer, Gascoigne using his size and weight to pin Henryk against the wall. Henryk couldn’t taste anything beyond the hot copper of blood between them. 

They broke apart and Henryk had a moment to feel a pang of guilt. Viola, he knew, was somewhere, the lantern in her window still lit and flaring, spilling light out onto the dark streets, and waiting for Gascoigne to return. Whatever was between the two of them was their private business. And Henryk couldn’t help the bitter thought that Viola never saw, could never understand, this side of Gascoigne, that Henryk had seen times uncountable.

 _Some part of him knew, too, what_ she _did, how she quelled the fire of his spirit, calmed him and soothed him, while Henryk did the opposite and sought to stoke those bellowed flames higher and higher._

Instead of parting, instead of pushing away at the solid wall of Gascoigne’s body, Henryk twisted his fingers in his hair and tugged, just hard enough to wrench a low growl from his companion, to have Gascoigne’s hips cant against his again. He could feel Gascoigne’s length straining at his breeches, and it made him acutely aware of his own aching cock. Henryk disentangled his hand and snaked between them, fumbling at Gascoigne’s belt while they ceaselessly rutted against one another. 

Somehow Henryk ended with his mask lying discarded and torn off somewhere, while Gascoigne bit and nibbled and sucked dark purple marks into the side of his neck. Every intake of breath left the metal bite of blood on his tongue, heavy and intoxicating in his mind, but Henryk managed to free both of their lengths, taking them together in a hand and running shakily up and down, glove slicked with blood. He thumbed at the head of his shaft and shuddered, collecting the precum that beaded pearly at his tip. 

“Gascoigne, fuck,” he breathed. Gascoigne ripped himself away, roughly dragging Henryk’s coat down off his shoulders and flipping the smaller hunter around. Henryk found himself with his arms tangled in his own leathers, pulled roughly behind his back with his shoulders straining in their joints. Almost bestially, Gascoigne hooked his fingers over the waist of Henryk’s breeches and yanking them down to his mid-thigh. Henryk spread his legs as far as they would go, and heat shot through him at the imposed restriction of his movement from his clothing.

The wet head of Gascoigne’s cock was pressing at his entrance, no doubt slicked with tacky and quickly drying blood. The hunter did nothing to prepare him, but Henryk found himself so needy, relaxing already into the intrusion and pushing back against his fellow’s thick length, cold shivers and prickling flesh crawling across his body. Gascoigne hardly waited, as soon as the tip of his length caught him he was rocking his hips forward and forcing himself inside Henryk, and without giving him a chance to adjust, began to thrust in and out. He buried himself balls deep on each thrust, pulling out until just the head of his dick stayed within the trembling hunter and then slammed back inside.

Henryk clawed his gloved fingers against the brick wall, his cheek scraping along the rough surface on each thrust. His cock, trapped between his body and the building, ached with each drag, pain and awful, tight pleasure building every time Gascoigne rammed inside him. Gascoigne wormed his hand around Henryk’s front and wrapped around his dick, and stroked him in time with his hard, wracking thrusts. And then there was nothing beyond Gascoigne’s leather clad, slick hand around his length, Gascoigne’s cock dragging in and out of him, filling him so deep on every thrust Henryk could practically feel him in the back of his throat.

Henryk found himself winding tighter and tighter, feet still not touching the ground below them, and yet it was almost without warning that his cock spurted, all over Gascoigne’s hand and up in beaded lines along his chest. His body clenched around Gascoigne’s cock but the hunter continued, pounding into him even as Henryk became overstimulated and hung, almost limp, in Gascoigne’s grip, the larger man dragging him back and forth on his dick.

Gascoigne slammed his cock in deep, grunting loudly, and then rutted against him, and Henryk could feel hot, slick liquid spurting against his insides. The hunter emptied himself inside him, before he disengaged entirely, and left Henryk on shaking, unsteady limbs to barely hold himself upright. He dug his fingers, scraped against the wall and he felt Gascoigne leaking out of him, dribbling down the insides of his thighs.

A melody played in his mind – the music box, the one Viola played for Gascoigne, and something in Henryk’s gut twisted as he slid his pants back up, headless of the mess he – they – had made. Gascoigne did much the same, and he could hear the man picking up his axe once more, the rough slide of it over the cobblestones.

“There are more beasts to slaughter,” Gascoigne said, voice rough and raw, and Henryk found he had nothing say.

For the night was not over, and there was more work to be done.


End file.
